


Fight-or-Flight

by MiniatureGlitterSoul



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Gen, I then decided to write a story about that, I think I have difficulties writing happy things, and I suddenly realized that Ford probably has some issues with adrenaline, it might be a slight problem, lots and lots of angst, so I was chatting with a friend, torture mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 17:43:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6817663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniatureGlitterSoul/pseuds/MiniatureGlitterSoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even though Ford is back in Gravity Falls, his body still behaves as if he's trapped in the dangerous world beyond the portal. He knows he must adjust to life in his home dimension, or else remain permanently exhausted from facing threats both real and imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fight-or-Flight

The first week out of the portal was difficult--for a number of reasons. Everything had changed so much--the house, the town, the  _world_. Ford spent most of his first week holed up in the basement, reading books and magazines and newspapers, trying to assemble some picture of what had happened in his absence. He only ever snuck upstairs after dark, well past the time when everyone else was sleeping--but still,  _always_ \--the floor would creak, and his heart would pound, and he would slip noiselessly downstairs.

He would put his palm against his chest then. He could feel his heart thumping against his ribcage. He knew that nothing here could hurt him--he’d seen so much worse than anything in this old town, and Bill was trapped in another dimension. He was safe. 

His brain knew that, but his body didn’t. He was still living in survival mode--in that fight-or-flight area of his brain--he had to pull himself back into his frontal lobe. He had to calm his heart, slow his breathing, steady his hands... He decided to hide in the basement for a while longer. 

Living in fight-or-flight was exhausting.

* * *

 

Eventually, Ford wandered out of the basement--but only because a board game brought him upstairs. It was fun, and for a while his heart didn’t beat quite so hard. For a while his shoulders weren’t quite so tense. 

For a while his body realized that he wasn’t in danger.

And then Stan rolled that stupid infinity die and an actual wizard showed up in the living room, and suddenly Ford’s brain  _and_  body shot into survival mode.

“Your math is no match for my gun,  _you idiot!_ ” he cried, whipping out his weapon, aiming--

But, as it turned out, his math was a match for Ford’s gun. And for all of the fighting Ford had done in the portal--for all of the things he’d gone through--he couldn’t escape. He was plucked off the ground like a rag doll, carried away, and tied up. 

He fought--of course he fought--but he was going up against  _math magic_. His body had been prepared for all sorts of imaginary dangers, but now, in the face of _true_  danger, he had failed. 

That night, while Stan and the kids watched television together, Ford curled up under his desk and fell asleep.

Living in fight or flight was exhausting.

* * *

 

Ford retreated to the basement again. There was still work to do here--and he still jumped at the slightest sound. Being around others was still stressful. Someone was always laughing too loudly--moving too suddenly--tugging on his sleeve. Every little thing set him off. Every little thing sent his heart racing.

_You’re safe,_  he chanted to himself over and over again, but his body never believed it.

_It’s just Dipper, it’s just Mabel, it’s just Stan..._

_You’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe._

But here he was, hands shaking because Mabel squealed, breathing faster because Dipper brushed against him, heart thumping because Stan swatted at a fly. 

Whenever Dipper ventured down to visit him, the sound of the elevator was enough to put him in a panic, and he buried himself in some book, never looking up, so that Dipper wouldn’t see him so terrified. And after Dipper left, he would practice his breathing, roll his shoulders, close his eyes...

Living in fight-or-flight was exhausting.

* * *

 

Showing Dipper the UFO was the most fun Ford had had since getting back to Gravity Falls. He longed for the wonder and innocence Dipper possessed. 

He longed to live in some place that was not fight-or-flight.

But when the alien defense pod was activated, and Ford was facing it down with nothing but a steady will, he wasn’t free of fear. Far from it. He was terrified. He was panicking. But he had learned the tricks to cover it up.

He inhaled and exhaled slowly, using his diaphragm. He actively released the tension in his muscles. He had lived in fear and paranoia for so long that he knew the tricks to relieve them--for once, his body was perfectly calm while his mind was racing.

But Dipper didn’t know the tricks. Dipper was too young--he hadn’t seen as much, hadn’t lived as much, and Ford hoped to whatever good there was in the universe that the child would never have to learn how to halt a panic attack. As soon as it was clear that Dipper was in danger, Ford let his body act on that survival instinct. Adrenaline--likely a very high and unhealthy dose--flooded his veins. He could practically feel it, rushing alongside his blood as it pulsed out to his limbs. He was quick enough to save Dipper, and the rift, but not fast enough to save himself.

_But maybe it’s better this way,_  the thought crept in suddenly, without warning, and surprised him. He wanted to tell Dipper not to worry--but there were so many things to worry about. He was just a child--Ford was likely going to his death--how could Dipper not have worried?

_It’s all right, Dipper--at least in an alien prison I’ll be safe. I won’t be so afraid anymore._

But then, suddenly, the pod shifted and everything went black. When Ford awoke, Dipper was staring down another pod--the very picture of bravery.

The image of everything Ford was not.

He congratulated Dipper, but was too tired to articulate just how impressed he was. 

Living in fight-or-flight was exhausting.

* * *

 

In some ways, being a statue was a relief. It wasn’t sleep--more like unconsciousness. When he was released, he was not rested. He was angry. He was angry at himself for letting all this happen and angry at Bill for waking him. 

He didn’t want to be awake. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to worry. He didn’t want to jump at every sound. He didn’t want Bill to see his fear, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could conceal it.

But in some ways, being in actual danger made him feel justified. He no longer had to chant  _you’re safe you’re safe you’re safe_  in a vain attempt to calm his body. He wasn’t safe. He could be as full of adrenaline as he wanted--could shake as hard as his body would allow--and be completely, utterly justified. Bill didn’t once ask, “What’s up, Sixer?” He didn’t once ask, “Are you all right, Grunkle Ford?” He didn’t once ask, “Did something happen?”

He just laughed, because he already knew the answers.

Ford’s breathing now was fast and shallow. The chains around his wrists and neck were too tight, too hot. His muscles were tense, and he worked hard to try to relax them. He was so, so tired... He let his chin fall forward until it touched his chest. He closed his eyes.

Living in fight-or-flight was exhausting.

* * *

 

The first week after Weirdmaggeddon was like being catapulted back in time. Any progress Ford had made at not being so jumpy was completely undone. He sat up in the living room late into the night, with all the lights on, listening to every creak of the old house and every whisper of wind outside.

It was torture--a very different kind of torture.

One night Stan wandered downstairs and found Ford there, sitting straight-backed in the armchair, staring at the empty space above the television.

“Whoa, you all right, Poindexter?” he asked, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

Ford turned to look at Stan, aware that his own eyes were wide and that his own lips were pressed tight together.

“Yes, fine,” he lied--though not well enough, he knew by the look on Stan’s face.

“Did you have, like, a nightmare or somethin’?” Stan asked.

“No,” Ford said, shaking his head.

“Then what are you doing?”

“Just...sitting.”

“Sitting?”

“Sitting.”

Stan stared at him for a long moment. Ford’s hands clenched and unclenched on the chair’s armrests. 

“I’m gonna ask again, Ford,” Stan began. “Are you all right?”

Ford didn't answer.

He was suddenly aware that he was crying.

Living in fight-or-flight was exhausting.


End file.
